Welcome to the first edition of my new fic, an in-the-flesh slash pairing with your very own James Hopkins and Pete Kowalski, darlings of Bullworth Academy.
For the record I don't know if it's going to be 12 chapters or not, what fun it'll be finding out if it is!
The Twelve Stages of Crushing on Pete Kowalski
1. Confusion
Jimmy Hopkins had a problem.
He'd had a lot of problems in his short life so far, but this one was up there with 'psychopaths trying to take over the school' and 'getting stepdad #3 arrested for beating up mom'. However, unlike many of the problems he confronted on a daily basis, this one couldn't be solved with the help of Lefty and Righty, a.k.a. his fists, not the Greasers.
No, this was one predicament that Jimmy definitely could not punch his way out of. Pete Kowalski had a hard enough time without being beaten up on top of it.
At first Jimmy had assumed it was food poisoning. He should've known better than to eat Edna's Cat Casserole and agree to a study session – namely, 'letting Pete help him with his homework so he didn't fail' – after classes one day. That sick, churning sensation in his stomach as Pete leaned over his shoulder and read his chicken-scratch handwriting with little pursed lips was probably an indication he was going to have the shits, or so he thought.
He hadn't been sure about letting Pete do this in the first place, because he didn't like feeling stupid and Pete's eyes glossing over his attempts to make sense of letters being numbers (why the hell did they use letters instead of numbers?) felt exactly like being stupid.
"Just say if it's wrong," he muttered, biting the inside of his lips and wondering why he didn't just get someone else to do it for him. Melvin still owed him a favour that time he filled in for him at the bi-weekly Grottos and Gremlins night. He owed him like ten favours for that.
"It's not wrong," Pete replied too casually; easy for him when he understood this mathmatical bullshit and could pull As and Bs out of his ass without ever having to try. "You just have to remember that the letters are symbols for numbers."
"That doesn't make any goddam sense," he huffed. "G an H don't add up to make J, they make GuH," he enunciated.
"They're just stand-in's," Pete explained. "If G is 1 and H is 2, J is 3."
"What? Slow down," he berated. Pete leaned over to grab a spare sheet of paper and Jimmy had to move out of the way of his arm under pink cotton. He never had asked why Pete wore pink shirts.
"If it was 1 + 2, the answer is 3, right?" he laid out, and Jimmy hated the feeling of being babied. Nor was the churning in his stomach helping at all. It felt too strange to have Pete schooling him like this.
"Sure," he grunted.
"And if it was 2 + 4, the answer is 6," he continued obliviously, jotting down neat little numbers with pens that always worked when he used them. "So instead of writing a number, they substitute a letter."
"Why?" he put. "Why not just use a fucking number?" He noticed Pete's eyes roll his way as he cursed, like he didn't approve but wasn't going to say anything.
"Because you can do things with symbols that you can't with numbers," he explained. "Look, how about we don't use letters at all? I'll just use actual symbols," he continued. "The letters come from greek anyway so the alphabet wasn't... okay, never mind," he cut off, sensing he was losing Jimmy. He scribbled down a set of formula.
+ = 10
+ 4 = 6
"So with those, you can work out what numbers the smiley face and the heart are," he announced. "If you know that a heart plus 4 is 6..." He was expecting Jimmy to step in.
Jimmy felt stupid and sick because letting people know they were better than him was usually top on his list of things that never happened, but Pete had offered to help him and he'd said yes so it was his fault they were in this position. He had to do this or accept looking a dumbass. It wasn't four and a heart, he pointed out to himself. The heart was a number, which added to four made six.
"Two," he mumbled awkwardly, and Pete scribbled it down.
= 2
"Exactly," he commended. "If that's two, then for the first one, we can write this."
+ 2 = 10
"So the smiley face is 8," he clued in.
"Right," Pete commented, and it was good he didn't sound smug because then Jimmy would feel awful about having to hit him. "Algebra simply uses letters instead of hearts and smiley faces, that's all."
"There's just one thing I don't get," he remarked, and Pete leant in on one elbow, watching Jimmy with half a smile on his face – only he'd be happy doing homework – and Jimmy wondered why he felt so damn sick.
"What?" Pete enquired.
"WHY?" he burst, and the raised tone made Pete blink, almost like a flinch. Then he grinned and started to laugh.
"Ask the Greeks," he answered mirthfully.
"What've they got to do with it?" Jimmy retorted.
"They invented algebra," he explained, and Jimmy chucked his pen down on the desk.
"Well thanks for nothing, Greece," he remarked dramatically, and Pete laughed again. Jimmy wondered why in hell they were sitting so damn close together, then realised it was because half his desk had a science kit on it.
"Most of these are right," Pete insisted. "You just need to finish filling in the values." Jimmy looked back over the work and saw what he meant. He'd done half of it but not finished the job.
"I'll do it later," he commented.
"No, do it now," Pete countered and Jimmy gave him a stare, as if to check if he'd really told him what to do just then. That promotion to Head Boy must be going to his head. "If you do it now, it'll be over," he lobbied.
"If I don't do it now, I don't have to do it now," he responded, and Pete had the nerve to sigh.
"Come on, Jimmy," he insisted. "It'll take you five minutes."
"What are you, my mom?" he snapped, but then remembered that his mom had never made him do his homework. That might've been one of the problems that brought him here. "Fine," he begrudged, picking the pen up and starting to go back over the problems. "But only cause I like you," he muttered, and then he had a squeeze in his gut like someone had nailed him with a football.
Why'd he say it like that? He meant because Pete was a friend. A friend whose bored staring out of the window suggested his indifference, but there was Jimmy feeling like he needed to puke for some reason.
"See?" Pete declared a few minutes later as Jimmy finished the work. "Was that really so hard?"
"No," he said shortly, flicking his pen off the end of the desk so it clattered to the floor noisily. "I guess not."
"And now it's done, right?" Pete prompted gleefully, like a trainer balancing treats on a dog's nose.
"Christ, I get it!" he snapped, then stopped himself and bit his tongue. "Sorry," he added, because of course Pete was shocked and probably hurt. "I don't like being patronised," he grumbled, shoving the homework under his planner so he didn't have to think about it any more.
"I wasn't... well, I didn't mean it to sound like that," he offered. "Sorry, Jimmy." He should've known better than to eat that 'meat stew', Jimmy scolded himslef. He felt like he was about to pass out.
"I, uh... gotta go," he announced, staggering up and heading for his door. "I think I ate something." That sounded dumb. "Something bad," he amended, putting a hand to his doorframe. Pete had turned and was watching him from the desk, ankles crossed neatly under his chair, elbow hanging off the back.
"Watch out for that canteen, it'll get ya," he joked, grinning at himself and his dashes of attempted wit. After the stripper-joke incident he was more careful about the limbs he went out on, which was probably best for everyone.
"Seeya," Jimmy blurted before he dashed out. But by the time he got to the bathroom the nausea was almost gone, even with the stink of the place. How the hell did that work?
He thought it was heatstroke next; that he was getting dizzy spells because it was summer and gorgeous outside, which was another word for fucking sweltering.
He and Pete were sitting against a wall on one of the patches of turf taking in the rays over lunch break. Pete had kicked off his shoes and socks, ankles sticking out the end of his pants because he was apparently growing – not that you'd know it to look at him in a line-up – and soon enough with the heat the sweatervest came off too, stuffed behind his head as he lay flat on his back looking like a marshmallow.
"Why do you wear pink shirts?" Jimmy found himself asking, and Pete squinted open an eye to look up at him, then shrugged.
"It's not that weird," he answered.
"Isn't it?" Jimmy retorted, and saw the little frown cross Pete's mouth for a second, fast enough to have missed if you weren't staring.
"My mom bought them and I'd have to get new ones if I was gonna switch," he explained nonchalantly, like he didn't care, although maybe he did. Maybe he had to act like he didn't give a damn to deal with it. "And they fade less. White shirts look like crap when they've been washed a dozen times." They did when it was at the Bullworth laundry facilities. Those machines took bricks and Algie's glasses as ferry just as often as they took clothes.
"Right," Jimmy murmured. "So it's a style thing?"
"Yeah," Pete chuckled. "I'm just that fashionable, Jimmy." It was a joke, clearly, but came off a little funny, like a lot of things Pete said. Jimmy wondered if the heat was getting to him.
"I think I might move into the shade," he declared, wiping sweat from his brow as he rose. He was going to freckle something awful if he got too much sun anyway. Irish blood.
"All right," Pete said easily, getting up and grabbing his blazer, sweater and socks in one hand, stuffing bare feet into his shoes with the other.
"Don't you wanna work on your tan?" Jimmy jested.
"Just my head?" Pete retorted brightly. "If I wanted a tan I'd take off my shirt." Something about the phrase stuck in Jimmy's throat. He found he didn't have a smartass reply, just lumbered along into the shade of a nearby tree and wondered what kind of lunatic heatstroke was making him think of Pete sunbathing shirtless.
"This weather," he huffed, wishing he didn't feel so damn hot and uncomfortable.
"I kinda like it," Pete answered, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He looked brown already, even though the good weather had barely lasted a fortnight. He had the kind of complexion, Jimmy reasoned, then considered why he was concerning himself with Pete's skin because that was clearly absurd, and decided he could use a nap. He lay back, chucking some rotten apples out of the way, and closed his eyes.
"Jimmy?" A voice. "Jimmy?" A familiar one. "Jiiiimmmyyyy."Okay, now it was getting annoying. Jimmy felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him too softly, like they were trying to rock a cradle, and opened his eyes only to be wondering why Pete was hanging over him with all his top buttons undone.
"What?" he groaned, screwing his eyes shut and trying to go back to sleep. The shaking on his shoulder continued.
"We kinda have to go to class," Pete pointed out, and Jimmy just wanted to roll over and nap away the afternoon.
"Screw that," he moaned, draping a hand over his eyes. He didn't expect Pete to grab his wrist and pull it up.
"C'mon, Jimmy," he berated, fingers seeming delicate around his wrist. "I don't wanna go by myself."
And there was the sick feeling again, Jimmy noticed. He pushed himself upright and brushed dry grass off the back of his head.
"All right," he conceded grouchily, "but only for you." It was meant to sound like a bitter remark, ask if Pete were dragging him along by his heels and would've done better to let him nap away second-period English, but it didn't. It was more like'for you because I like you, Pete' and Jimmy was half-asleep or dehydrated or coming down with something because he just did not feel right.
It took one more push to realise it, but because he'd always been a stubborn son of a bitch it had to be stronger than the others. Trust his loyalty instinct to get the best of him.
He heard it before he saw it, because if he'd been within eyeshot they never would've dared. Voices around a corner in dimmed school corridors.
"Don't think cause you're Head Boy you're not still a loser!" a voice ricocheted in an empty building. It was later than most people dawdled after final bell, so the halls were empty. Jimmy had been kept back negotiating a new roll of film from Ms. Phillips.
"I don't want any trouble." They only had one Head Boy, so of course it was Pete, but his voice was distorted, metallic. Jimmy heard the smash of locker-door abuse and started seeing red.
"Well you better think twice before you do anything that gets in our way, okay?!" It sounded like Casey, Jimmy deduced. Casey and Luis he confirmed on rounding the corner.
"Ok-kay! Just lemme-" Pete's voice was coming out of a locker that now had a big dent in the door.
"What the hell do you two think you're doing?!" Jimmy burst, tearing down the hallway and grabbing Casey before he even turned around. Jimmy grabbed two fists full of football jersey and shoved the jock back into the other wall of lockers so hard his head smashed off the back.
"Ow!" he yelped. "Jimmy! Didn't see you there, uh-... I can explain."
"I don't wanna hear it!" he snapped, noticing Luis come up on his eight 'o clock. He headbutted Casey, spun him around and then shoved him right on top of the other jock, sending them both tumbling to the floor where he put in the boot a couple of times. "If this ever happens again, you're both dead meat," he hissed, and it was real fear in their eyes as they scrambled up and sprinted out of the building wheezing like eighty-year olds on oxygen.
Jimmy ripped open the locked and winced at the sight of Pete stuffed inside.
"Are you all right?" He reached in and pulled Pete out; gently, he tried, but he was crammed in there along with someone's sports kit and an unusual amount of empty paste bottles.
"I've had worse," Pete said shakily, and he was putting on a brave face which was about as convincing as the Edna mask Troy wore last Halloween. He looked like all the colour had run out of him and if the Head Boy blazer weren't slightly too big, Jimmy would've been able to tell if he was actually trembling or not.
"Christ, Pete," he breathed. "I'm sorry."
"What for?" he said with shallow breaths, like he was having a panic attack. "You d-didn't do it."
"No, but I... could've gotten here sooner," he fussed. "Let's go get them written up," he suggested, heading for the office. They might not get suspended from the football team for it, but it was worth something.
"No, don't bother," Pete interjected. "It's fine, Jimmy. It happens."
"Getting beat up by a couple of jocks and stuffed in a locker doesn't just happen!" he contested, feeling guilty, like he'd put them on the job.
"To me it does," he replied glumly, and Jimmy realised he was gritting his teeth so hard his jaw was aching.
"Not if I can help it," he seethed, slamming the locker door shut so hard he probably busted it for good, while Pete winced.
"What are you gonna do, follow me around all the time?" he offered sceptically. "It's fine, Jimmy. It's over now."
"That's all you've got to say about it?!" he fumed, and in a burst of frustration punched the next locker along. His hand wasn't thankful.
"Whoah, easy," Pete urged. "That's not gonna help, is it?" He'd put his hands on Jimmy's arm like he'd be able to hold the next punch back. "You don't need to get so mad," he insisted, and on some level Jimmy understood that was right. He didn't need to get so mad, but he was. He was seven shades of fucking furious with those jocks and wished he hadn't let them get away.
"Let's get out of here," he growled, and Pete could agree with him on that.
On the way back he caught Pete rubbing his arm.
"They did hurt you," he accused, and Pete's hand dropped suddenly. Like he'd been putting it on, covering up to save Jimmy's temper.
"Just a bruise," he excused. "I'm fine, Jimmy." This time it was sounding more like a plea to just drop it, and Jimmy fought with himself to let it go.
"Okay," he forced. "All right. Sorry I lost it." He didn't know why he was apologising, but had the notion that it'd make Pete feel better.
"No problem," he answered. "You did save my ass, so thanks for that." He smiled halfway turned towards Jimmy, and at that point exactly Jimmy had the urge to just grab him. Not for any particular purpose, but just reach out and grab him like that'd explain why he was so mad and why Pete should care more and let Jimmy go kick their asses again just to make sure they knew their place. "What?" Pete interrupted his chain of thought.
"What?" he parroted.
"Did they get my face?" Pete asked, touching it. Jimmy's eyes had never hit the asphalt so quickly.
"Oh, no," he muttered. "Nothing. Never mind." They reached the dorm and Pete scurried off to his room, probably to go check out his bruises and see what the real damage was, which Jimmy illogically felt the need to know. Except he couldn't just follow Pete into his room and wait for him to undress and check out his bruises like some kind of... of...
"Dammit," he hissed as it hit him, putting on a face of not being worried and waving at Pete as they went to their own rooms. He'd substituted the symbols for numbers. He'd solved the formula. "Godfuckingdammit."